Cicada Spring

by Christian Galacar

  “I don’t think that will be necessary right now,” Gaines said. He stuck out his hand and the two shook.

  “Okay, as you see fit,” Harry released Gaines’s hand and stood. He walked to his door and opened it. “If that’s all, I have a lot to do to get ready for the festival. I hope you’ll understand if I don’t see you out.”

  “Not at all,” Gaines said, rising to his feet and making his way to the door. “Call me if you should think of anything else.”

  “Will do, Calvin. But like I said, I’ve told you all I know. I have no doubt you’ll find the son of a bitch who harmed that girl. I trust you, you’re a smart man.”

  Gaines tipped his hat and walked out of the office. “Take care.”

  “Same to you.”

  Harry waited until Gaines turned the corner and was out of sight before shutting the door and pouring himself a drink. It was hardly past nine o’clock, but he deserved it. He’d earned it.

  CHAPTER 14

  The killer thought: I am Bill, the photographer from Woodstock.

  Bill sat on the edge of the bed in the Heartsridge Motel. Beside him was his new camera—a Nikon. He’d purchased it three days before from a small shop outside of Heartsridge at a place called Joy’s Camera & Photo. The woman behind the counter who’d sold it to him said it was the best they carried; it was what the professionals used. While he was there, Bill also bought everything he’d need to develop his own pictures, along with a beginner’s instructional book: The Art of the Lens, by Deedee Stanhope.

  It took him most of Friday afternoon and night, as well as a trashcan filled to the brim with ruined developing paper, but eventually Bill managed to get the solution ratios and developing times right. His first successful photo was of the peace sign on the back of his jacket. After this initial success, the rest came easily. He did four more right away: one of the TV on top of the dresser; one of his truck in the parking lot, which he’d taken from the window of his room; one of his bare feet on the tiled bathroom floor; and two of the kid who worked the front desk (these were also taken from his window, while the kid took out the trash).

  Now all these primitive photographs hung proudly in his bathroom like trophies, secured with wooden laundry pins to a length of twine he’d purchased from the hardware store downtown. He’d replaced the bulb above the washroom sink with a safelight—a darkroom bulb. It painted the room a deep red when it was on. That might have been Bill’s favorite part, the warm red tones surrounding him while he worked. It was womblike, a space of warmth, comfort, and creation. It was a feeling of serenity he’d never experienced before, and the closest, he imagined, to what a mother’s love must feel like.

  I am Bill, the photographer.

  The next day, after figuring out how to use his new equipment properly, an urge to return to the rest stop visited him. It was an obsessive thought: What if he were to go back and snap a shot of the kid from Hanover? The kid was likely still in that ditch, wrapped in a tarp. His hand would still be sticking out, flashing that accidental peace sign. Still a chance for a photograph. It would be his first real piece of art, although he could not shake the feeling that going back there was somehow cheating. He needed to move forward, not backward. So he resisted the temptation. Returning to a crime scene was risky and careless, as well, and he needed to be smarter than that.

  Bill grabbed his cigarettes off the nightstand and beat the pack softly against the heel of his palm until the tip of a filter edged out. He caught it between his front teeth, pulling it out, and lit it. He took a drag, sitting there a moment, recalling his morning at the diner. It was unfortunate he’d come face to face with the sheriff. He hadn’t wanted to draw any attention to himself. But it wasn’t the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last, that he’d conversed with locals in a town he was just passing through. It’d never bitten him in ass before, and he didn’t think it would now. He’d be out of Heartsridge in a few days, and by then he’d just be another face fading into the background of these people’s memories.

  Bill tamped out the cigarette. Then he leaned down, pulling out the old ammo can he’d stashed beneath the bed. He opened it, unloading the packs of Marlboros and prying up the sheet-metal trap door at the bottom. He dumped the contents onto the hotel bed and unbound the collection of IDs, laying them out on the ugly yellow-and-brown bedspread. Next, he picked up the gold necklace and put it on. He removed the bullet shells from the bag and placed them around the IDs, arranging them like decorative flower petals. Rubbing the cross between his thumb and forefinger, he stared at the faces of the people he’d killed: William Mathey, Bridgewater, Massachusetts, born 2/19/ 58; Stephen Weagle, Burlington, Vermont, born 11/4/56; Sara Sexton, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, born 5/27/55; Kyle Giuffrida, Acton, Massachusetts, born 7/4/60. (Good ol’ Kyle, born on the Fourth of July. What a patriot. Thanks for the necklace, pal.)

  Bill reveled in the memories of each kill. William Mathey and his accidental finger pose. Sara Sexton—oh, how she’d smelled of lavender and cherry (she cried the most). Stephen Weagle, the man who’d tried to escape from the car when he saw the gun (it’d taken Bill an entire afternoon to clean the kid’s blood off the upholstery). Then there was Kyle Giuffrida, the guinny who’d prayed to Jesus right up until the moment Bill pulled the trigger—only he wasn’t going by Bill back then—and put a bullet through the bridge of his nose. They had all been fools. And they all got what they deserved.

  Bill removed the necklace, re-bundled the IDs, scooped up the shell casings, and placed everything back into the ammo can under the trick bottom. But before he sealed it back up and put it under the bed again, a thought struck him.

  He went into the bathroom, his new darkroom, and stopped for a moment, looking at the row of photos hanging from the twine in front of him—his first six successfully captured and developed pictures. They were special photos, he decided. They were the beginning of something new, his first steps, the first words spoken by Bill the photographer. While he didn’t see any real artistic value in them, there was something extraordinary about them. They were his earliest work, and so they had sentimental value. It was the same way a parent is proud of a child’s preschool artwork: it isn’t about content or how well crafted it is; it is about what it represents—a beginning with a promise. A promise of more to come. Soon the refrigerator would be covered in artwork, each better than the last. A trophy case of progress.

  Bill unclipped the photographs, shuffling them in his hands. It was decided; he would place them in the box with the rest of his memorabilia. They belonged there. They would be at home there, mixed among the other relics reminiscent of an elemental time: Kyle, Sara, William, and Stephen. His first kills and his first pictures, commingling. They were the remnants of a childhood, a time of development, a time that was behind him now. He was full grown, had come into his own. He could feel it. He’d always thought he knew everything, thought he was so slick. But like any boy who is convinced he’s a man, he was blinded by his own adolescent exuberance. He hadn’t known shit when he’d first started. But now he did. Now he was ready.

  I am Bill.

  “I am,” he whispered, and smiled.

  Before Bill left the darkroom, his eyes shifted to a second length of twine strung behind the first. Four pictures hung there. These pictures were different from the first six. These four pictures were more important. For two, he understood why: they were of his next kill, his perfect kill. He grinned wickedly at these two pictures, his heart starting to pound. Excitement. Nervousness. Palms prickling. Mouth drying. It was the nearest thing he’d felt to sexual arousal in a long time. The blood stirred in the associated regions and his spit thickened. Joanna, he thought. And then he whispered her name, his breath caressing his lips. “Joanna.”

  Yes, Joanna. Joanna and her perfect features. Joanna and those eyes that seemed to see into his very soul. Joanna and her sweet smile. Joanna, the waitress who knew his name—Bill. She’d talked to him, seen him in a way nobody had before. She
was interested in him, had asked him questions. Who was he? What did he do? Why was he in town? His answers were lies, but they were true lies. In that moment, and from then on, he was Bill. He was Bill for her. He had to be, otherwise he was Nobody. He didn’t exist. People couldn’t see Nobody. People didn’t care about Nobody.

  I am…

  Joanna was perfection. She was proof that flawlessness existed, and that was why he needed to have her and capture her perfection, immortalize her in death. Was this what love felt like—this need to absorb someone’s essence? Was love this thing that burned inside him? It was impossible to tell. He had never experienced love before, so far as he knew. He might’ve loved his mother if she’d stuck around. But she hadn’t, so fuck her. No, this feeling inside him was something out of focus, something closer to rage on the edge of desire.

  He plucked the two pictures of Joanna from the second line and looked at them closely, running his fingers over the black and white prints. One was a shot of her locking the diner after her shift on Sunday night; the other was of her getting into her car. He’d sat in the shadows of the park across the street from Deb’s Diner, waiting almost two hours to get those. He couldn’t remember excitement like that since his first kill, Kyle. The waiting. The anticipation. He needed to feel her. Have her.

  He examined the photos a few moments longer then shuffled them together with the others. They would all go in the ammo can, old and new together. One big happy family. In the end, in some future long away from this motel room, the box would tell the story of a life, start to finish.

  At last his attention shifted from Joanna to the two pictures remaining on the twine. They were something special altogether, something he’d stumbled into on Saturday. Nothing he had ever intended, just the right place at the right time… depending upon how you looked at it.

  That Saturday, his head burning with thoughts of returning to the rest stop to photograph William Mathey, Bill decided to go for a walk in the woods behind the Heartsridge Motel. He needed to clear his mind, thinking it would be a good place to practice using his new camera. Maybe get some shots of nature.

  He’d just come upon a pond when he heard the girl screaming. Through the woods he could see a brick structure. There was a sign on the side of the building: HEARTSRIDGE WATER DEPARTMENT. When Bill moved closer, he spotted a car parked alongside the building. In the backseat, a man was forcing himself on young girl. Bill waited, watching for a few minutes and snapping two shots with his camera. There was artistic value there, he was sure of it. Strong emotional content. And he’d liked the way it had felt to watch. Rape had never interested him; he had always preferred the idea of taking life rather than forcing unwanted love. But the voyeurism of witnessing it had excited him.

  Now, two days later, looking at the pictures hanging on the clothes line in the red warmth of his darkroom in the Heartsridge Motel, they still excited him, and that meant something, so he took them down and stored them with the rest.

  CHAPTER 15

  David Price pulled into the parking lot, parking beside a red pickup truck and shutting off his engine. He looked up at the flickering neon sign above him. HEARTSRIDGE MOTEL: VACANCY. That was the best news he’d heard all day. Vacancy. It was exactly what he needed—someone to take him in, accept him. David breathed a sigh of relief, which felt oddly like gratitude. He glanced at the darkened NO beside VACANCY. Two harmless letters, but today they looked threatening. David half-expected them to light up the second his feet hit the pavement.

  He had intended to go to work when he left the house thirty minutes before, but the closer he got to the West Elm Dairy Plant, the more the thought of work soured in his mind. The idea of going became exhausting. He wouldn’t be able to get anything done at the office. His wife and daughter were home, dealing with this crisis together. He wanted to be there, too. He wanted to help, to console, to fix. But he couldn’t. Not this time. His own daughter was uncomfortable around him because of what that son of a bitch Harry Bennett had done to her.

  At first he’d driven past the motel, not even noticing it, but in his periphery his subconscious must’ve seen the flickering neon sign and planted a secret desire in the bedrock of his mind. Before he even knew it was there, a part of him acted. He hit the brakes, turning around and pulling into the parking lot. By the time he’d put his car in park, the murky thought which had been born in the bottom of his mind surfaced and came into focus. Even then, David did not understand where the desire came from—only that it was a real thing. What he did know was that the idea of escaping and being alone in that motel was the only thing making the knot in his gut unravel.

  David stepped out of his car and walked to the front desk.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” the kid behind the counter asked as David walked in.

  David didn’t recognize him, and that was good. He hadn’t wanted to know anyone here, not today. Heartsridge was a small town, and most people either knew, or at least recognized, one another. But recently he’d noticed this wasn’t so much the case anymore. Generations were growing up, replacing the familiar with the unfamiliar. Every day Heartsridge reminded him less and less of the town he’d grown up in. He didn’t know if this was good or bad. His mother had always told him to embrace change, and he tried to remember this whenever possible. But here, in the place where his roots ran down to the nostalgic waters of the past, change seemed like sin.

  “How much for a room?” David asked.

  The kid ran his finger down a short list taped to the desk in front of him. “Eleven dollars a night during the week, sir. You here for the festival?”

  “No,” David said. “I just need a room.”

  “A room it is, then. Just one night?”

  “Yes… no actually, I’ll take it for the week. Monday through Friday. Can I do that?” David asked. A series of thoughts followed his words: Why the hell can’t I? I already told the office I’ll be out for a few days, and if a few days should happen to come to a week, so be it! What do I care?

  “Not a problem. But so you know”—the kid scanned the list once more—“it’s fifteen dollars a night on weekends, Friday and Saturday, during the festival. So it’ll be a little more for Friday night. And it might get a little crowded around here starting Thursday, the rooms go pretty quick.”

  “That’s fine, I’m not worried,” David said. Then, for show, he patted his pockets. “You know, I lost my credit card, though. You take cash?” He couldn’t have motel charges showing up on his credit card statement. Not that he was doing anything particularly wrong, but he didn’t want to have to explain himself to Ellie. It was just easier this way.

  The kid laughed. “This is still America, isn’t it? Of course we take cash. You just need to fill this out.” He slid a clipboard with a preloaded form secured in its metal grip. A pen dangled from the side, attached to a piece of frayed string.

  David looked over the form briefly, filled it out, and signed it.

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked, reaching into his pocket and resting his hand on his billfold.

  The kid rubbed his head, glancing around. He picked up a calculator. “Just a sec,” he said and started punching numbers into the keypad. “With tax, it comes to sixty-two dollars.”

  David removed his wallet, counted out seventy dollars, and handed it to the kid. “Keep the change,” he said.

  The kid’s eyes widened. “Thanks, mister, that’s mighty kind of you. Name’s Pete. Don’t hesitate to ring me if you need anything.”

  “Don’t mention it, Pete. But I’m sure I won’t call.”

  “Well, if you should it’s no bother. I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed.” Pete turned around and removed a key from the rack behind him. “How about room seven? Lucky lucky seven?” He handed the key to David.

  “That’s fine,” David said.

  “Seven’s down there on your left.” Pete pointed behind David to a short covered sidewalk lined with numbered green doors. “Enjoy your stay.”<
br />
  “Thanks again,” David said, turning around and heading out the door.

  Outside, the whine of the cicadas split the air. David didn’t notice them. His mind was too caught up in itself, tumbling and turning over, tangling his thoughts. There was so much to feel, so many emotions, internal conflicts, instincts he was forced to ignore, and everything seemed to be pushing and pulling with identical force in opposite directions, balancing out, creating an odd, numbing equilibrium. He had so much hatred, but only because he had so much love. He wanted justice, but revenge seemed sweeter. He found envy and jealousy in his wife’s connection to their daughter, but he also had a great appreciation for her, for being able to soothe their child when he could not. In this moment, the task of sifting through all these internal divergences seemed too daunting, so he pushed them away, saving them for later consideration. He knew they would still be there when he was ready. Right now he just wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to forget, if only for a little while, the obsolescence and disquiet waiting for him back home.

  David continued to Room 7, and as he fit the key into the lock and opened the door, it occurred to him that in all his years, he’d never once been in this motel. Motels were for tourists and people who cheated on their spouses. He was neither. Only that was no longer the truth now. He was a tourist, a stranger in his own land.

  Inside, the accommodations were as he’d expected: ugly bedspread, small television, thick drapes, worn carpets, the stale smell of lives lived quickly and on the go. Existence measured in nights, not years or decades.

  David sat on the edge of the bed, slowly removing his shoes. Then he turned on the TV and lay down, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the local morning news.

  “The body has since been identified as one William Mathey of Bridgewater,” a reporter said on the TV.